


Looking Glass Affair

by Pippa



Series: Crazy Russian Affair [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: AU, Beginnings, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippa/pseuds/Pippa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya arrives at U.N.C.L.E. and gains a new partner. Glimmers of a possible future relationship beyond that of partners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking Glass Affair

After two years of speaking only Russian he was trying to think in English again. It was hard. He was tired and the past five weeks had been so typically Russian with the secrecy and the fear and the shear arbitrary violence that English seemed very foreign. He’d spent the many waking hours of his flight trying to find an English tale into which the past six weeks would fit. 

The Lubyenka to the Kremlin and now to New York in one endless day, his adventure looked most like a Carroll farce, perhaps Alice in Wonderland or Through the Looking Glass. He thought that would make it Tweedle Dum next to him, and on the opposite side of the aisle Tweedle Dee. 

The Tweedle boys were discussing which of them would accompany Illya to the bathroom. He’d suggested he could manage the trip alone but as with the few other comments he’d made during the trip it was ignored.

Finally, after discussing his request in a desultory fashion for half an hour,  
Tweedle Dum bowed to the inevitable and stood up. The big guard grabbed Illya’s arm in a tight grip and half hauled him out of his seat and deposited him in the aisle.

“Don’t make me have to break a sweat, you little shit,” the guard told him in a hiss of Russian, either confident that no other passenger would understand him or not caring. He gave a shove to Illya’s back while keeping the grip on his arm causing him to stagger and almost fall. “What did I tell you?” The guard squeezed harder and twisted Illya around to face him. “One more move like that and I’ll break your arm.” 

When the man released him Illya half walked, half, staggered to the tiny bathroom. Since they were seated in the back of the plane, it was a short trip. When he made to shut the door, Dum stuck his shoulder against it, holding it open. 

Illya smirked at him, “This what you get off on, Comrade? You just like to watch or do you want to…” He didn’t get an opportunity to finish as the other man crammed himself into the tiny compartment, shoving Illya up against the opposite wall. The guard punched him twice in the back, doing little damage as the space was so small he couldn’t pull his arm back far enough to get any power behind his blows. 

“You getting hard back there, Comrade?” Illya asked.

“Excuse me, sir, do you need assistance?”

The thug had to back out of the cubicle before he could face the airline stewardess. “My friend was feeling unwell.” His keeper said in accented English.

“May I help you then, sir?” She had managed to insinuate herself between the door and his guard which Illya thought either showed a great deal of courage or foolhardiness.

“I will be fine in a moment,” Illya put his hand on the door, “if you don’t mind?”

She stepped back and he closed the divider. He wished he had some nefarious action he could perpetrate in the first moment of privacy he’d enjoyed in six weeks but he had no intention of causing his guards any real difficulty. He took his time though, enjoying the opportunity to thoroughly wash his face and hands. He bent his head to the tap and drank some of the tepid water. Not liking the way it roiled in his stomach, he stopped after a few mouthfuls. 

The guard stood, scowling at Illya when he came out, but with the stewardess still in attendance, he did nothing more than crowd Illya too closely as he returned to the prison of his seat. She brought them orange juice a few moments later and stood by the seat while Illya drank his. He thanked her sincerely and sipped slowly, hoping it would stay in his stomach if he introduced it in small doses. She smiled at him and offered another when he returned the cup. It was with reluctance he said no and watched her walk away.

He knew the two guards had instructions to deliver him alive or they would have killed him in East Berlin while they were waiting for the Paris flight. What he didn’t know was if they needed to deliver him still able to walk. He thought that perhaps if they’d intended him serious harm that would have happened while they were still on the safe ground of the Soviet Block. So far, except for an occasional threat and punch, they’d satisfied themselves with keeping him awake and denying him any food or water. This behavior was so typical of his recent experience with the KGB, he thought it might just be their automatic response to him. Still it had seemed very personal since they knew he’d be beyond their control soon. What difference if he had a glass of water? That orange juice was the first thing he’d had to eat since leaving Moscow.  
The arrival in New York was extremely anticlimactic. No one was at the gate to meet them, so he sat between his keepers, watching the busy concourse. The two CIA agents who’d followed him and his KBG guards when they’d boarded at Schönefeld were sitting opposite, making no secret of their presence. He was fairly certain he had pegged two GRU agents boarding the plane in Berlin as well. He thought they must be following the CIA men, but wasn’t certain if they might be tailing him. They were sitting at the opposite side of their little tableau also making no secret of their interest. 

Illya thought if he wasn’t as sore, tired and hungry as he was, he would have enjoyed watching so many men watch him while trying to ignore each other. Fourteen hours in various airplanes and terminals, not to mention the weeks before, had left him too worn to find much pleasure in anything. He considered that with the spy services of the two primary actors of the cold war watching out for his well being he was perhaps as safe as he could hope to be. He rested his head back against the wall behind his hard plastic chair and closed his eyes. 

Sitting was so much better than standing, standing and standing and standing under the bright light in the freezing cold, wet and hungry and beaten half witless. Sitting was very fine. What matter that the chair was hard and unforgiving on his bruises, it was so fine to sit. His guards, under so much scrutiny now, left him alone and he dozed.

“Mr. Walter Smith. Would Mr. Walter Smith of Omaha, Nebraska please report to any TWA desk?”

Illya stirred at the announcement. He stood and picked up the threadbare coat they’d given him in Moscow and waited while his various watchers sorted themselves out. He’d learned the hard way to never do anything precipitous while the KGB was watching or the GRU. He supposed the CIA would be no different in their reaction to the unexpected. He walked slowly through the terminal, keeping his right hand tucked in his pocket and his elbow close to his body, protective of both the arm and the sore ribs in the crowded terminal. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum kept close to either side of him, their presence now offering some protection from the crowd.

Each terminal on his long flight west had been larger and brighter and more crowded than the one before. He wondered if he flew on to Los Angeles if that terminal would be busier still or had he reached the West? Was this the heart of darkness he’d heard stories of for most of his life? 

The people didn’t seem to feel the oppression of their capitalist bosses as they hurried about their business. Perhaps he was seeing the capitalist bosses and the oppressed masses didn’t have the money to fly? Or perhaps the oppressed masses of America were no different than the oppressed farmers of the Ukraine? Perhaps they too were a figment of the fevered ambition of the men in the Kremlin?

“I’m Walter Smith,” Illya said after waiting in line at the TWA desk for five minutes while a man upgraded his ticket to first class. Illya examined the man surreptitiously, anyone who could fly first class must be a Capitalist Boss. Illya tried to get a good look at this boss’s face. His suit was certainly much finer than Illya’s. Since he hadn’t seen anything of the doubtful quality of the clothes he’d been issued before leaving Moscow, this wasn’t much of a surprise. Even his KGB watchers, a notoriously poorly clad group, were better dressed Illya. He wondered that they’d not felt some shame at sending him to represent them in the condition in which he was dressed? Then he decided his very insignificance must be some sort of a message to his new masters. He, the poorest and most worn of pawns, was forfeited to the West. A pawn his whole life he didn’t mind this latest gambit but wished that there had been a bit more pride in it.

“Just a moment, sir.” The very pretty, slender woman in a dark blue uniform picked up a telephone and began speaking while Illya gave a quick scan of his surroundings. He was pleased to see all of his watchers were in place. The last thing he wanted was someone thinking he wasn’t where he was supposed to be at this, he hoped, end of his journey.

“Your party will be here in a moment, sir, if you would just wait to the side?” Illya stepped out of the way of the next customer and returned to his scrutiny of the terminal. He was very good at waiting and enjoyed watching the people transacting their business, apparently oblivious to the menace his many keepers represented. No civilian in Russia would have been so oblivious to the presence of so many spies in their midst. 

He was fairly certain he’d spotted his two U.NC.L.E. keepers at the far end of the concourse. He wondered what it was about spies that they always traveled in pairs. He supposed it was the nature of the profession. Once it was determined that no one could be trusted, then it followed that the spy could be trusted least of all, hence a watcher for the watcher.

He wished he could attribute his skill at blending into his environment for the fact that even standing right in front of them, flanked by two scowling KGB goons, the U.N.C.L.E. agents still asked the ticket clerk where Mr. Smith was. He knew though that it meant he didn’t look any more like the western image of a GRU agent than he had the Soviet one. Like his KGB comrades, these two men each stood almost a head taller than he. As was the nature of men they disregarded him for his stature. He’d long accepted that he was never going to be the tallest, strongest man in a room. He’d accepted that he wasn’t going to be the tallest, strongest boy in the room before that. It had rankled for a time. It could still be a disadvantage, but he’d found the power in it long ago and held that close with a satisfaction that he only occasionally allowed to show. It was one of many secretes, but one that gave him a sense of stature in a world of bigger men.

He thought the incredulity of, “You’re Mr. Smith?” Was a bit ill done, but decided that the Americans must have a communist story to go with every capitalist story he’d heard. No doubt these men had expected a Russian bear of a man and not a short, skinny blond.

“We’re from your uncle Alex.” The older of the two men passed him a yellow card that could have come from any print shop and Illya pretended to read it. He thought the best proof was in his watchers, as they made no protest against these men speaking to him.

He returned the card and nodded his acceptance. “Your bags, Mr. Smith?” The younger man asked and Illya shook his head.

“I have traveled,” he looked at his two KGB guards, “fairly unencumbered.” 

“This way, then.” 

They escorted him from the terminal, one walking beside him and the other ahead. The two KGB agents walked away in the opposite direction. He was pleased to see the CIA men hesitate and then follow his KGB guards. It was nice to see that the CIA had some respect for U.N.C.L.E.’s ability to keep control of ‘Mr. Smith’. 

The sidewalk in front of the terminal was even more crowded than the terminal. Their car was enormous and colorful, a light blue marvel of not black. He touched the paint delicately with one finger, as he got into the back seat. The finish was smooth and shiny from the rain. He shouldn’t have been surprised after the bright winter clothes of the terminal that the cars proclaimed the excesses of capitalism with such a wealth of color. Even in London and Paris, the cars had been almost uniformly black. He sank into the soft upholstery and turned to watch out the window for the next wonder of private enterprise. 

The highway was full of cars, so rich with cars that they could often not move in the snarl of them. Cars of every color he could imagine each one was seemingly larger and brighter than the one before. He found the display of wealth unsettling. Every person in America must have his own car. He wondered how such a thing was possible. He wondered if they were all issued with a car at some point? Perhaps they received a car when they finished school or completed their military service? He wondered if he’d be issued with one as well?

His companions were as silent as his KGB guards, though without the simmering sense of barely leashed violence. He would have enjoyed listening to them talk but had no conversation to offer as priming and so spent the forty-minute trip studying his new home. He certainly wasn’t ever going back to the USSR - that had been made very plain to him. He wondered if after a time he would grow accustomed to opulence?

****  
U.N.C.L.E. New York was accessed through their parking garage. Security was tight and professional. Once inside the building his guards relinquished him to a young woman who guided him through a maze of chrome corridors. This journey, as the trip in the car, was made in silence. Illya wondered if they all assumed he didn’t speak English.

By the time they reached their destination, he’d begun to lag behind his guide and thought with longing of the chair in the airport or even better, the lovely soft bench of the blue car. Left in an anteroom he was directed to a chair into which he sank with relief, keeping his face carefully blank. It would do him no good to tell his new masters just how damaged a pawn had been foisted off on them. He sat straight in the chair, foregoing the desire to again lean back and close his eyes. Time enough to sleep when he was dead. Now he needed to keep his eyes open and his wits sharp. 

The woman at the desk was dressed as all the women he’d seen in the building in a white blouse and a tight blue skirt. He studied the blank walls, fighting now to keep his eyes open and his spine straight.

“Might I have a glass of water?” He finally asked, as much from the need to stay awake as from the thirst that had plagued him for weeks.

“I’m sorry. We have no water here. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

He considered the difficulty of managing a hot cup of coffee, a beverage for which he’d never developed any liking, against his thirst, which was fairly extreme. There was also the caffeine, a stimulant, which would help him to stay awake. 

“Yes, thank you.”

“Your English is very good.” Now that she was in motion, pouring the coffee, holding up the sugar for his inspection, she seemed to feel conversation was allowed.

He nodded to the sugar and said, “Yes,” to the English. The coffee was as bitter as he recalled, but not terribly hot and helped with the dryness for which he was thankful. Only time would tell if it would help with his need for sleep. The two KGB guards had been good for keeping Morpheus at bay if nothing else.

“You may go in now,” the pretty secretary told him, apparently alerted by some signal he couldn’t see. He placed his cup on the empty seat next to his and stood awkwardly, hating feeling wrong in his own body. He took a moment to wait for the room to steady around him and walked toward the door. He thought a little food would help. Sleep would be better, but something in his stomach would help the dizziness.

The door opened at his approach and he walked into a large room with a big window, the first window he’d seen since his arrival in the building. He recognized the United Nations in the distance. He stood for a moment, taking in the view of the huge city spread out to the horizon before turning his attention to the elderly man sitting at the opposite side of the big, round table.

“Mr. Kuryakin, welcome to New York.”

Illya gave a short bow, “Thank you, sir.”

“I have a letter from Semyon Ogoltsov. I understand he is the head of the Personnel Directorate of the GRU and the man responsible for assigning you to us.”

Illya didn’t feel this required any comment on his part and was actually more information than he had so he remained stiffly at attention and silent.

“Please sit down, Mr. Kuryakin. We are less formal here than you are perhaps accustomed to.”

The old man spoke kindly and Illya nodded to the courtesy. He looked about and found the nearest chair at the big table and sat down carefully. 

“I am told you have a message for me?”

“Yes, sir. I bring greetings from Comrade General Pavel Bititsky. I am to tell you that at the completion of my current mission I am assigned to U.N.C.L.E. as the first of the USSR’s contribution of manpower.”

“Indeed.” Waverly studied him as he filled his pipe and went through the ritual of lighting it as if it were some spiritual exercise. “Indeed,” he repeated when he had finished. “And that mission is?”

“I am to assist U.N.C.L.E. in stopping Stanislav Ivanovich Golubev from committing a crime against humanity.”

Waverly studied Illya in silence for some time while Illya kept his attention focused on the wall just above the old man’s right shoulder.

“I assume you have additional information on this… crime?”

“I am to ask you if U.N.C.L.E. will honor its charter agreement to protect all signatories equally?”

“Why do you bring this to me and not to U.N.C.L.E. Europe?” Waverly answered with his own question.

Illya dropped his gaze to look into the other man’s eyes. “I go where I am sent.”

“Yes, commendable, I’m sure.” Waverly said his attention shifting from his study of Illya to an equally intent study of his pipe. “Yes, then Mr. Kuryakin. The USSR signed the original charter creating U.N.C.L.E. and although their support has,” he smiled slightly at Illya, “until this point, been lacking they are still part of the world we are sworn to protect.” Waverly arched his eyebrows interrogatively. “Now, young man, I think you have some information for me?”

“Yes, sir. Comrade General Golubev disappeared from Moscow two months ago with twenty canister of Sarin gas. The impression he left behind was that he intended to do something with the gas.”

“One moment, please,” Waverly leaned forward and pressed a button on an intercom. “Miss Rogers, please ask Mr. Solo to report to my office.”

“What is your affiliation in the USSR, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“GRU Spetzna, sir.”

“To whom do you report?”

“I was given this assignment by General Bititsky.”

“Why you, Mr. Kuryakin?”

Illya gave a slight shrug, “I was not told why, sir.”

Waverly made that noise older men sometimes make when they wished to show they had heard something, but didn’t want to comment upon it. Illya returned to his study of the far wall.

No more then five minutes had passed when the door opened to admit a handsome dark-haired man of perhaps thirty. The man was impeccably groomed and dressed in what even Illya recognized as a very nice suit. Illya rose to his feet, facing the new arrival.

“Please, sit down, gentlemen. Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin is here as a representative of the USSR with a mission for us. Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo is number two of Section Two Operations and Enforcement. He will be your partner in this undertaking. Now if you would be so good, may we know what it is that finally brings the USSR into the U.N.C.L.E. fold as a full member?”

“ Yes, sir.” Illya rose to his feet and stood at attention. “Since Comrade Stalin died, there have been many changes in my country, changes of allegiance and changes in who exercises control. Comrade General Golubev was a close associate of Stalin and an important member of the Second Directorate of the Ministerstvo Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti, now the KGB, and was responsible for the control of counter intelligence activities in Eastern Europe.”

Solo was lounging in his chair examining his cufflink with intense concentration as Illya spoke. Having no idea if this denoted interest or extreme boredom, Illya kept his eyes focused on Mr. Waverly who was listening with a flattering attention.

“There were many changes when the MGB became the KGB. I understand that Comrade Golubev chose to resign from the MGB during the reorganization. 

Illya glanced over at Solo, feeling the weight of the other man’s gaze and found Solo studying him with an unblinking scrutiny. Illya thought he preferred it when the man’s attention was focused on adjusting his wardrobe. 

“General Golubev operated by preying upon the weakness of other men and using his knowledge for blackmail and extortion. He did not limit these activities to protecting the Soviet Union but also used such methods to increase his own power within the MGB.”

Illya stopped speaking for a moment and cleared his throat. He wished he’d managed to get that drink of water earlier. 

As if reading his mind, Solo said, “There’s water on the table there.”

Looking about, Illya saw the pitcher and glasses and nodded his thanks before pouring a glass and downing half of it in a few deep swallows. The he resumed speaking. “Batitsky in the GRU knew of Golubev’s activities within the MGB and waged his own campaign to stop him. This all came to a head with the death of Stalin and later Beria. Golubev was Beria’s man with his death and the reorganization of the MGB many of the men suborned by Golubev were killed or sent away.” Illya finished the water and replaced the glass on the tray. “Golubev apparently used the time between the death of Stalin and the death of Beria to prepare his plan. He recruited from among his cadre within the MGB, a number of agents. His signal to make his escape was the death of his patron, Beria, and the destruction of the old MGB. Now reorganized into the KGB. Golubev disappeared with eighteen of his soldiers the day Beria was arrested. Were that all that disappeared, this would be of no import to the rest of the world, but he also stole twenty canisters of a Sarin gas derivative.”

Illya stopped again and when no comment was made he asked, “You know what Sarin is?”

“A chemical weapon,” Waverly said. Solo merely looked vaguely interested.

“Yes, it is an extremely potent nerve gas weapon but with a very short shelf life. This particular batch of the gas I am told will remain potent no more then six months. Golubev and the gas disappeared seven weeks ago. Golubev has some sort of plan for that gas. The KGB arrested all present and past associates of Golubev and questioned them about his plans. This effort revealed nothing, so far as I was informed. He and his men have disappeared. The only thing that is known for certain is that he left the Soviet Union on December 24th crossing into Yugoslavia.”

“Ah, Yugoslavia, hence the appeal to U.N.C.L.E.,” Waverly said. “How much assistance can we expect from Tito?”

“Yugoslavia does not mind teasing the bear given an opportunity, but Tito is not a fool to stand in the path of an enrage enemy. He will not allow the USSR to operate within his borders, but he will allow limited U.N.C.L.E. access.” Illya stopped speaking and waited for some comment.

“So Mr. Solo you need to find General Golubev and retrieve or destroy those canisters of Sarin gas before he does whatever nefarious thing he has planned. Since General Golubev has done nothing contravening U.N.C.L.E.’s mandate, his arrest is not a part of your charge unless, of course, during your investigation something happens to make that necessary. Mr. Kuryakin will be your partner for this affair,” Mr. Waverly stopped speaking, looking expectantly at Solo.

“Ah, yes, sir. Have you a plan, sir?” Solo asked after a moment of silence, during which Waverly puffed contentedly upon his pipe as if he had nothing more pressing to consider than the weather.

“I suggest that you go to Yugoslavia and see if you can find some trace of the rogue general or his agents. I assume you know where to start searching Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Yes, sir. I am told that the Yugoslavian ambassador to the U.N. will provide two entry visas if so requested. We will be allowed to travel freely in the country. There is a certain, limited GRU presence within the Yugoslavia. Their last sighting of Golubev was in Przinitzia in the northeast of the country. We should start there.”

“I will make arrangements for your visas. Since the visas are for two U.N.C.L.E. agents, you, Mr. Kuryakin, will be sworn in as an agent. Mr. Solo, please show Mr. Kuryakin around, and take him through the paperwork. Get him a desk, an apartment and whatever else is necessary. He is now a member of Section Two. Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo will give you a copy of the oath you must swear as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. I will not use the cover of U.N.C.L.E. to send a GRU agent into Yugoslavia. If you are not prepared to take the oath, this joint mission ends here. If you do take the oath, I promise to see this mission to completion prior to assigning you any other tasks.”

“Yes, sir.” Illya pulled himself sharply to attention.

“All right, get on with it, gentlemen.”

“Yes, sir.” Solo said and bowed slightly to Illya, indicating that he should precede him out the door to the office.

Once through the sliding doors, Illya watched silently as the older man flirted outrageously with the pretty secretary. After five minutes of wasted conversation about nothing, Illya then followed Solo out of the secretary’s office. 

“I’m not quite sure what the procedure should be as all of our new agents are already members of U.N.C.L.E. before they arrive here, but I’m sure it must start in personnel so we’ll go there and make sure you get paid.”

Illya saw no reason for a reply and when the other man stood looking at him expectantly gave a curt nod.

“Okay, I’ll take that for an enthusiastic agreement,” Solo said after a moment and gave Illya a broad, patently false smile.

Illya offered a small quirk of a smile at the other man’s attempt at levity.

This got a more genuine smile from his guide. “Much better. Soon we’ll have you chattering away like a real capitalist.”

“No reason to be rude,” Illya rejoined and was pleased to see his companion brighten considerably. Obviously the man needed fairly frequent reassurance. Illya stored the knowledge away.

Personnel was a confusion of bank accounts and payroll forms that Solo walked him through with amazing patience. He was issued with a new badge and a number to a bank account into which he was assured his paycheck would be deposited.

“Now I think a weapon.” Solo said, studying him for a moment in silence. 

The weapon was a familiar Walther P-38. Solo had him sign for the pistol and then showed him into a small firing range. He handed Illya a set of ear protection. 

“All of our Enforcement Agents are required to qualify with 80% of ten shots inside the bulls eye at a hundred yards. I’m sure you won’t be held back by a failure to meet that mark, but the range is here for you to become familiar with the weapon. We can work on any problems you might have while we wait for the visas. Shoot now and let’s see where you’re at. We have a house-to-house shooting area at the farm. I’ll take you there later in the week if we have time and give you a chance to use the weapon in a more field like setting.”

Illya nodded and took the box of shells. He carefully examined the weapon for any obvious deformities and then loaded his clip. He was pleased to see that the clip had been modified to accept ten shells unlike the normal eight. It made the weapon heavier in the handle and caused it to rise a bit more on discharge, but it was worth the inconvenience for the additional firepower. He raised the pistol and fired off the ten shots quickly.

“You might want to aim there, cowboy.” Solo said, bending over and pushing the button to retrieve the target to their position. “Or not,” he said examining the big hole in the middle of the paper. “Not your first trip to the circus, I see.”

“Circus?” Illya said, looking up from his reloading of the magazine.

“Yeah, you’ve done this a few times.”

“Ah, a euphemism. Yes, Mr. Solo. I am a trained agent. I have done this before.”

“Okay. Let’s get you a rig.” Solo walked over to the door with Illya dutifully following him. “I see you’re a southpaw, so you’ll want a left handed rig. I may need to get one made up for you?”

Illya worried at that one for a bit before giving up. “I’m sorry. Too many unknowns. Southpaw is left handed, a rig is?”

“Shoulder holster for the Walther.”

“Ah, yes, no, I am not a south paw. Right handed is fine.”

Solo looked at the Walther still held in Illya’s left hand for a moment and then back at Illya, “Nice shooting with your off hand then.”

“We are trained to shoot either hand.”

“Now you’re showing off,” Solo said, as they had arrived at the entrance to the armory. 

“Trying to make a good impression,” Illya replied.

Solo grabbed a leather holster from a selection of them on the wall and offered it to Illya. With the pistol still gripped in his left hand Illya extended his right hand for the collection of straps and holster. Solo held the holster for a moment after Illya gripped it looking at him.

“How’s the arm?”

“Fine.” Illya said, looking up to meet the other man’s eyes.

“Fine now or it will be fine later?”

Illya remained silent and waited until Solo released the holster.

“You do know there will be a physical with the medical department before this tour is over, right?”

Illya fit the Walther into the holster and awkwardly hung the contraption over his left shoulder, making no effort to remove his jacket and properly fit the rig. He had anticipated that at some point U.N.C.L.E. was going to want to examine just what sort of prize had been foisted off on them. He hoped that his presentation in Waverly’s office had made his case for having value in the search for Golubev in spite his shoddy condition.

“Not my favorite place, either. We’ll save it for the end. This way to our weight training and unarmed combat practice area. We also have a pool here, sauna and the physical therapy section in case of injury.” Solo lead him into another elevator and this time up two levels and along yet more steel corridor.

“Napoleon, Napoleon, wait up I need you to sign off on this for me.” One of the two men who’d picked him up at the airport trotted down the corridor, catching up to them from behind.

“Go ahead in and look around. I’ll be there in a second,” Solo said, nodding toward the door at the end of the corridor.

Illya stepped through the doors and into one of his many recurring nightmares. Since his stay in the Lubyanka they all started the same. Someone grabbed him, pinning his arms behind him and then the beating began. Sometimes they pinned his arms behind him and the water hose began. Sometimes they pinned his arms behind him and did other things. But always it began with the pinning of the arms. Always it was immobilize him first and then attempt to destroy him.

The moment he felt the presence moving fast behind him, before he felt the first hand on his right arm, he was already throwing himself backwards. Perhaps, had there not been a famine and a war, he would have been tall. But in that case so many things might have been different that he was careful to never think of that awful might have been. It had taken him a little time to find the benefit in his height, to learn that it was hard for men to hit down, that his size deceived others who read weakness in his slight form and advantage in their own relative tallness.

He used the power in his legs to drive his shoulders back hard into his assailant and followed with his head when he felt his shoulder strike the other man’s chest. He had the satisfaction of hearing the man’s nose break as he pulled up his legs and pushed off the man’s chest driving his feet into the stomach of the man running toward him. Pulling free from the first attacker, he followed his feet with his shoulders, stepping to either side of the second man’s downed body at the last moment so as not to crush his chest. He spun to his left with his right foot in the air and caught the third attacker with a roundhouse kick to the side of chest, again aiming to the chest to wound and not the head to kill.

He followed the kick around so he was facing the other four men in the room who stood some distance away in various degrees of surprise. He scanned them carefully, but none of them seemed to be interested in assisting his three attackers. He straightened from his half crouch just as the pneumatic door opened and Solo stepped into the room.

“What the ….”

The silence of the perfect concentration he’d enjoyed during the brief fight was gone now. He could hear a soft gasping from the man he’d kicked in the chest as he struggled to get his diaphragm to work again. Illya stepped over to him and lifted the choking man’s shoulders from the floor so his chest would re-inflate. The man who’d started the whole thing was making the harsh wheezing noises that always accompanied a newly broken nose. The third man appeared to be slightly stunned, but was already rising to his feet.

“What’s going on here?”

Illya looked at Solo carefully. His first thought was that Solo had sent him in the room, knowing this was waiting. Now he wasn’t as certain. His new partner appeared very angry, but that could be because his ambush had failed. Certainly, Illya would not have been a welcome partner to a man of Solo’s seniority. Yet, surely Solo would recognize the need to complete this mission and would not be such a fool as to jeopardize their success by incapacitating the only one who had any true information about the men they were after. In the Spetsnaz such a reception for a new recruit was standard procedure. U.N.C.L.E. too was an elite organization, perhaps this was a normal action and not directed at him because of his Soviet origins?

“Walters, you want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“He broke my nose. The little Russian bastard broke my nose.”

So perhaps it was directed at him because of his homeland. He didn’t fail to see the humor in the fact that, in Russia he was a Ukranian and, in America, he was a Russian.

Solo stepped up to the man and lifted the hand that was covering the damaged nose.

“Yes, he sure did.” He looked over at Illya. “What’s going on here?”

Illya gave a slight shrug. If this was the standard way to greet new members of U.N.C.L.E. perhaps he’d overreacted.

“We heard about him. Mike and I drove him in from the airport. We heard he’d been assigned to you. We thought…” The slightly stunned man was the driver of the car on the trip from the airport.

“You thought?” Solo said, his voice low and menacing to Illya’s ears. “There was some thought in this action?”

“It wasn’t meant to be serious. We just thought, we’d, you know, check him out. He’s never even been to Survival School. He shouldn’t be in the field. He shouldn’t even be in the building,” this from broken nose, Walters.

“So you what?” Solo looked around the room. “Tell me, Walters. Did you walk up behind a Section Two man and try to grab him?”

“He’s not Section Two, he’s never been trained. He’s some Commie fresh off the boat.”

“What color is that badge he’s wearing?” Solo pointed over at Illya. “What color?” he repeated when Walters said nothing.

“Yellow,” the man finally said.

“Yes, Section Two. Yellow. Now I know you recognize a Section Two badge you’ve certainly made no secret of your desire to have one. So what is the first thing they tell you about Section Two agents?” When nothing was forth coming Solo looked at the other two men. “Any one here. What’s the first rule of dealing with a Section Two agent?

The man on the floor answered, “Never surprise an agent.”

Solo said nothing for a long moment. He merely looked at each of the three men with such scorn that Illya felt some pity for them.

“Go down to Medical and get checked over, then go make a report to Mr. Daniels. Take Antonelli with you he can explain why he needed me to look at those requisition forms out in the corridor. Tell Daniels what happened here and ask him to inform me as to what disciplinary action he’s taken.” When no one moved for a moment he said. “Now get out of here and make sure if you see me, I don’t see you. I don’t want to see any of you for a long time.”

“Look, Solo, he’s just a…”

“He’s an U.N.C.L.E. agent and he’s my partner. You say another word and I’ll finish what he started.” 

Walters looked as if he had many other words he wanted to say, but the man who’d been on the floor was on his feet now and grabbed Walters by the arm. Followed by the third man, they left the gym. Walters cast one more look over his shoulder at Illya filled with such loathing that Illya knew there would be a reckoning on this day’s work.

“Walters, Walters, stop right there.” Solo walked up to the door, holding it open with his body. “Was that look at Mr. Kuryakin supposed to mean something? Because if it meant anything other than I’m very sorry, I need to know.”

Illya turned away not anxious to add to an already very tense situation. Solo had not known about the ambush. That was an enormous relief, not to be partnered with someone who would countenance that sort of stupid action. Now that the adrenaline was leaving his system, Illya felt a bit shaky. He walked over to the bench that ran along the wall and sat down. He tucked his right arm in tight to his ribs. He was thirsty again and still very hungry and tired. He wondered if this day would ever end. Then thought what a fool he was for wishing his life away. It would be over soon enough. He should embrace a day that had so much action and so many new things in it. 

“Are you okay?”

He looked up into Solo’s dark, brown eyes, pleased that the other man appeared concerned about his wellbeing. It was good if Solo was to be his partner that he cared whether Illya lived or died. That could be a very good thing indeed as this mission played out.

“I am fine.”

“I guess that answers the question about your unarmed fighting skills. I’m very sorry about this.” Solo sat down beside him. “All of our training school graduates come into U.N.C.L.E. as Section Three agents. They provide security to our offices and back up to our field agents. An agent that has performed well in Section Three and desires to become a field operative, well, after a few years of experience he can apply to move into Section Two, Enforcement. Not many do and of those who apply very few are accepted. Those that apply and are not accepted… Sometimes there is a feeling of jealousy. I think that perhaps you were a victim of some of that jealousy, not to mention a bit of nationalism.”

Illya nodded his head. He had anticipated that there would be some hard feelings toward an agent from the Soviet Union, working in the United States. He was pleased that his partner did not appear to share that prejudice and that Mr. Waverly had been more concerned about the mission than Illya’s politics.

“Let’s get you cleared through Medical and we can call it a day. I’ll take you to Internal Services and get you a room. You are free to leave the building. You don’t need to remain here.”

“Thank you,” Illya said, wondering where Solo thought he would go, a Soviet citizen in New York City with no money. Illya gave Solo a quick sideways glance to see if he was serious or if the comment had been said in jest. No, he looked serious.

Medical was semi-deserted. They never found a doctor. Visiting doctors from other stations were being lectured on the latest advances in combating T.H.R.U.S.H.’s various drug regimens. A nurse gave Illya six shots for everything from small pox to dengue fever and told them to return the next day.

Illya doubted the delay would result in much healing, but supposed it wouldn’t do any harm. He was beginning to lag behind Solo as the other agent strode down the hall talking over his shoulder to him about exploding buttons. Illya tried to work out how long he’d been awake.

“I’m sorry, Napoleon.” The beautiful young woman truly looked very apologetic. She looked as if she would have loved to do anything for his new partner, especially anything that would allow her to get even closer than she currently was. That would have been difficult as he was practically draped over her shoulder as the two of them examined the roster of available rooms at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. “All of those doctors are here for the drug meeting. I don’t have an empty room. Perhaps I could find him a hotel somewhere? We had to put several of the doctors up in the Edison. Perhaps Mr. Kurkian could go there as well.”

“Kuryakin, and thank you, Doris. You have been so very helpful.” Solo smiled at the woman after a moment of silent admiration that Illya thought was going a bit over the top since the woman had been of no assistance at all. But at this point Illya would have been happy to sleep on the floor next to her desk and didn’t really care how helpful she’d been.

“It is no matter. Perhaps there is an empty office I can sleep anywhere,” Illya suggested when it appeared that Solo’s admiration was going to continue into a prolonged flirtation.

Solo turned and examined Illya as if he’d grown a second head. “Oh, I’m certain we can do better than an office floor, can’t we, Doris?” That wide smile was once more offered to the secretary as Solo gave Kuryakin a slow wink before turning his attention back to the now thoroughly flustered female recipient of his charms.

“Napoleon, you know I would do anything for you. There isn’t a room in the building. I have two doctors sleeping in a conference room on the fourth floor. Tomorrow, yes, but tonight, no.”

Solo persisted for another few minutes before giving the woman a kind smile and leading Illya out of the office and into the hall. Kuryakin followed, wondering if he would simply fall asleep walking down one of the endless corridors. 

He was surprised at Solo’s apparent lack of authority. He was the second in command of Enforcement for North America and yet he’d needed to woe some mid-level apparatchik to get bed for one of his agents. Surely this woman in her menial position couldn’t flaunt the authority of a man such as Solo. He decided he was too tired to try and understand the machinations of capitalist bureaucracy and would file this away for consideration in the morning. 

******

Napoleon looked at the slender young man, standing half at attention in the corridor, nearly asleep on his feet and gave Kuryakin a small smile. He’d recognized that speculative look in the gym. Kuryakin had been wondering if he had been set up to take a beating by his new partner? Kuryakin’s willingness to believe the best of the situation had given Napoleon a sense of hope, not just for their joint mission, but for their partnership and perhaps for U.N.C.L.E. This frighteningly competent youngster was willing to try and make a success of this undertaking. Solo could do no less than meet him part way.

“I do have an empty room in my apartment. Let’s go get some dinner and then you look as if you could use some sleep.”

He watched the blue eyes widen as they focused on his own. When he’d walked into Waverly’s office and seen the young man sitting there, it had been... It had been as if someone had punched him in the gut. He’d had a few relationships with young men in college but had given up that part of his sexuality after the army. He loved women, being around them, and having sex with them. It had been easy to restrict his amorous attention to the opposite sex. 

Certainly, he occasionally saw a beautiful man and wondered how it would be, that strength and power that came from sex with men. But he’d never been attracted enough to do anything about it. He had enough of that strength and power he supposed in his daily life without seeking it in his personal relationships. He hadn’t missed it.

He hadn’t missed it until he walked into Waverly’s office and saw that, well, that boy. However old Kuryakin might be, he looked like a boy, a youth on the edge of manhood, a beautiful youth with that straw colored hair and those eyes and that beautiful face. Napoleon had been smitten. It’d been all he could do not stare at him as he spoke. As it was, his entire body had thrummed with awareness of the Russian’s every move, every gesture and word. His interest had further quickened in the gym when he’d seen Kuryakin’s cat quick reflexes as he’d narrowly avoided killing Stanley while managing to knock that clumsy idiot, Olsen, against the wall. Napoleon had wanted to possess that amazing body.

But Napoleon was an adult. He’d seen beautiful men and women who’d ignited a spark of lust in him before. This was his partner and in a few days the first hot flame of the attraction would burn out, partially doused in the first woman he could find and the rest dampened by other feelings as he came to know the man. At this moment, though, he almost burned with the desire to touch, hold, and possess. But Napoleon was a man in control of his actions and no one would ever know the heat this young man caused in his body. The heat that burned just now as he looked into that exhausted face. He didn’t feel that quickening in his loins as he might have expected. Rather he felt a desire to shelter the other man from whatever had put those dark circles under his eyes and bound that right arm to the side of his body. He smiled slightly to himself, God, Solo, you’ve got it bad.

“Your apartment?” For the first time Kuryakin sounded less than completely confident. He sounded like what he was a twenty-two-year-old, thousands of miles from his home in a situation he only vaguely understood. Solo felt a frisson of guilt and hoped that he hadn’t added to the anxiety the Russian must be feeling. As those blue eyes looked up to him for a moment in surprise for just that single moment revealing a bit of the uncertainty that Kuryakin had masked with his silence and stolid expression, Solo hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. Hoped he was indeed an adult and that he wouldn’t say or do something to ruin what might be the beginning of trust between the two of them with this surely, passing desire for more.

The drive was made in silence; a condition Napoleon was coming to suspect was the norm around Kuryakin. He offered no conversation and responded to most efforts by Solo with nonverbal replies. When required to speak Kuryakin’s answers were short and to the point without any elaboration. He should have found the silence uncomfortable, but he didn’t. Kuryakin appeared quite content with his own company and Solo found that he felt no particular need to keep the other man entertained or amused as he would with a woman. He was comfortable, sharing an occasional observation to which the other man would either nod or give a quick quirk of the lip, which Napoleon had come to suspect might be a smile.

“Italian or Chinese? I can pick up either on the way to the apartment.”

Since neither a nod nor a lip motion would answer this question, Solo looked over at his partner while the car sat idling at a traffic light. Kuryakin looked a question at him, a lift of the right eyebrow a slight widening of the eyes, those beautiful blue eyes now shadowed in the darkness of the winter night.

“Dinner, Chinese take away or Italian. You looked tired, so I thought you would prefer to grab something on the way to the apartment instead of eating out.”

“Thank you, yes. It does not matter, either.” This was positively an oration and Napoleon gave him a broad smile as a reward for all of those words.

“Chinese then. It will be quicker.” That didn’t even get a nod, but Solo didn’t mind. He thought he was getting quite good at having a one-sided conversation. He continued with an intermittent travelogue about the neighborhood, throwing in a little New York history as he drove. He asked no questions of his companion and left no places in the conversation requiring responses from him. He glanced over at the Russian at the next light and saw that Illya was sitting with his head back on the seat, his eyes closed. 

He left Illya in the car and went into the China Palace alone. It took the cook ten minutes to stir-fry enough food for four and pack the boxes. Kuryakin was awake and alert when he returned to the car. Good. He didn’t need a partner who fell asleep, sitting alone in a public place. It was good that Kuryakin wasn’t foolish enough to let his guard down even in his obviously exhausted state. It was nice that he trusted Solo enough to close his eyes when he was in the car with him. It was very nice and it made Napoleon want to reach across the seat and give him a reassuring pat on the back. However, since he’d wanted to touch the Russian ever since he’d met him, he didn’t allow himself to be fooled that his desire to touch him now was anything other than the lust that had burned in him all afternoon. Maybe he should have left Kuryakin sleeping in their office and brought Janet home instead. With Janet he could have at least done something about the discomfort in his pants. Kuryakin was only going to make it worse.

He’d been pleased when there wasn’t an available room and was glad to spend more time with his nearly - silent companion. If he could forebear touching him, the rest of it was very sweet, the looking and the listening. He smiled to himself again. He hadn’t been this smitten since, since? He tried to think the last time he’d wanted someone this much. If he saw a woman who excited his interest he immediately did something about it. He didn’t allow it to grow to this level of desire. She either returned his interest or he walked away and found someone who did. This was different. He couldn’t walk away and he couldn’t do anything about the desire. Well, yeah he could and he needed to. He needed to stop thinking about how much he wanted to get Kuryakin’s clothes off him. How much he wanted to run his hands through all that blond hair, run his thumb over that full lower lip. Wanted to…

He pulled into his parking place and jammed the lever into park with more force than was strictly necessary. He needed to get his brain into gear and stop thinking with his dick was what he needed to do. This wasn’t some pretty secretary available and willing to have a quick fling. This was a Russian spy sent to help stop a mad man from killing thousands. This was his new partner and if Solo was half the agent he thought he was, he needed to stop thinking about him as anything else. 

Firmly resolved on this new course he walked around the car and caught Kuryakin’s arm as the other man climbed out and staggered against him.

His newly formed resolve vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. In his attempt to help, he’d grabbed the Russian’s right arm and the other man seemed to melt against him with a soft moan. Solo released his hold on what he knew was a sore arm and dropped the bag of Chinese food. He grabbed Kuryakin in an awkward hold with both hands. There was hardly anything there. Napoleon guessed that this man, who’d bested three Section Three agents, couldn’t weigh much more than a hundred twenty pounds, certainly not a hundred thirty. The obviously too large suit had served to hide just how slender the other man truly was. Not slender, Solo corrected the thought, thin, skinny, underfed.

“I am sorry,” Kuryakin said into Napoleon’s chest as he pushed awkwardly against Solo. Napoleon released his hold gradually as he was sure the other man could stand on his own. “I stumbled.”

Even in the poor lighting of the parking garage Solo could see that Kuryakin’s face was grey, his lips drawn tight against the pain.

“I grabbed your arm,” Solo said, explaining aloud to himself this new look of fragility on Kuryakin’s face. Stupid. Clumsy, not something Napoleon was normally guilty of. But he supposed being nearly cross-eyed with lust could make anyone a tad clumsy. This had to stop.

Napoleon retrieved the dropped bag, not bothering to check on its contents. It would be what ever it was. The thing now was to get this journey ended.

“How long since you slept last?” he asked the question before Napoleon remembered that he’d been not going to ask any questions. But he wanted to ask this one and he needed to ask the one about the arm. That one could wait and this one probably didn’t matter since there was nothing he could do about the answer in any case.

Kuryakin gave him what passed for his smile and followed as Solo led the way to the elevator. Napoleon didn’t ask any more pointless questions that wouldn’t get answers and the ride was made in silence.

He showed Kuryakin the guest bedroom and bath, then and suggested that Kuryakin shower while he dished up the food. Through the whole tour the Russian remained silent half hidden in the shapeless suit, following him like a lost puppy from room to room.

He went into his own room and found a clean pair of pajamas and fresh underwear and a shirt for the morning. The shirt would be too large, but not any worse than the one Illya was currently wearing. He wondered if Kuryakin was the smallest guy they had in Russia. Maybe that was why they’d sent him. Could be they exported all their little Russians, kept the big ones to breed back. 

He heard the shower running and gave a perfunctory knock on the door before stepping into the bath.

“Here’s some clean…” 

Kuryakin wasn’t in the shower. He was standing naked in the middle of the room attempting to examine his back in the vanity mirror.

“Wow, that didn’t happen today.” Napoleon put his hand on Kuryakin’s shoulder and turned him slightly so the light shone more fully on the back he’d been trying to examine. 

Kuryakin was covered in bruises and what Napoleon knew from experience were the burns of a cigarette and in a few cases a cigar. Some of the blows had been so violent that the skin had torn around the injury. Kurakin’s back was the worst. Napoleon knew immediately what he was looking at. Knocked to the floor Kuryakin had rolled into a ball as they were all taught, attempting to protect his head and genitals. The results were the boot marks around his kidneys and lower back. The bruises ranged from very recent to nearly faded to invisibility, not one beating or even two or three but many over a long period. 

Napoleon forced himself to keep his eyes on Kuryakin’s face after his quick examination of his back. The man was as thin, as he’d expected feeling him through the suit but not skinny, rather lithe and well muscled.

“Turn around.” He used his hand on Kuryakin’s shoulder to indicate which way and examined his lower torso. He pressed hard against the other man’s lower abdomen proud of himself as he looked up into Kuryakin’s face and not down at his genitals. “Does that hurt?” he asked. 

He got that clever left eyebrow for an answer as the other man stepped away from his touch.

“Okay, well stupid question. Do you think you’re bleeding inside? Does it hurt that much?”

“If I had thought there was anything so very wrong, I would have said something.”

This treatise on Kuryakin and the medical profession stopped Napoleon for a moment. It so perfectly mirrored what would have been his own reaction to such a beating. Indeed on more than one occasion, this had been his reaction and he gave the other man a smile.

“Good answer. Your back looks worse than your front. We’ll run you past the doctors in the morning.” Napoleon straightened and took Kuryakin’s right forearm in his two hands and turned over his arm. Both the Russian’s wrists were seriously abraded. Looked like handcuffs, too deep and sharp for rope and not wide enough for manacles. His bicep was wrapped tightly in a less than pristine bandage.

“What’s wrong here?”

“Burn.”

“Does it need a doctor?”

Kuryakin shook his head. “It all just needs to lie down and sleep.” He looked up at Napoleon through a shag of blond hair and eye lashes and Napoleon wondered that he didn’t take him right there on the bathroom floor. Exhausted, dirty and wounded the other man looked good enough to eat whole. But he also looked completely disinterested. Worse than disinterest. Kuryakin looked very wary, as if he knew what Napoleon felt and the thought either frightened or disgusted him. That did more for Napoleon’s own interest than a cold shower. Napoleon let go of his arm.

“Get that shower. I’ll have the food dished out when you finish.” He turned and left the bathroom, his ego and libido both seriously chastised. He hadn’t thought he was so obvious. Maybe it was just the naked Illya in front of the fully clothed Solo. That disparity would have been enough to make anyone feel at least somewhat defensive. Maybe he hadn’t read Napoleon’s desire so clearly; maybe he’d only been reacting to awkwardness of the situation.

********

Illya stood frozen until the bathroom door closed and then leaned back against the cold tiled wall with a sigh of relief. That had been dangerous. He looked at the door and saw a small button in the knob. That must be the lock. He should have locked the door. He’d felt the other man’s eyes on him all afternoon. He knew that look that scrutiny, masked as polite interest. He had hoped it was the other man concerned that he would be sufficient to the job of partner given his small stature. But it had not been. It had been more dangerous and than the touch in the bathroom. There had been a moment when he wasn’t sure how it would end. He couldn’t very well kill this man, his new partner. He couldn’t even damage him. Solo was his superior officer. If Solo had ordered him down on his knees right there in the bathroom there was nothing he could have done but obey. It was possibly not over yet, the insistence on the washing. Could the other man’s concern be that he was not suitably clean? Could the wash and the food be the prelude to something else?

He straightened and stepped into the shower. The water was still hot. He had wasted all of that hot water and there was still more. He washed under the stream of hot clean water. When his brain tried to force images of the fire hose and freezing water into this moment of warmth and cleanliness, he fought it back into the past where it belonged. He dried and after a moment of hesitation donned the other man’s pajamas. They smelled of soap and faintly of the cologne that Solo wore. They were too large and he turned back the cuffs. He picked up the disgusting suit they had given him, two days ago now, and left the bathroom for the bedroom. He draped the suit over a chair sorry he had not given it better care in the bathroom. He would need to wear in in the morning. 

He looked at the bed with longing. He would rather sleep than eat. He had been so long with so little to eat that he no longer felt much hunger. But he knew he needed food. He was weak from the long diet of thin gruel and potato soup. He needed to teach his stomach to eat again. 

The eating was not a problem. Exhausted as he was, the food chased away the desire for sleep. Solo had arranged eight small white folded boxes on the table. Each contained a different food. The flavors and spices were like nothing he had ever eaten before. The vegetables in some were still crispy with their freshness, cooked only enough to absorb the essence of the sauces. The chicken and shrimp were flavorful and plentiful. He ate some of each box and went back to his three favorites and ate more. He washed it down with the cold beer Solo gave him. The beer was light in color and lacking in flavor, but it was so cold the other defects hardly mattered. Finally, well past full, he looked up at his dinner companion to see a look of bemusement on his face.

“Hungry were you?”

Illya looked down at his dish in embarrassment. What had he been thinking? He knew better then to eat so much of another man’s food. What if this had been for show and Solo needed this to last for the rest of the week and he, Kuryakin, had eaten so much. He felt ashamed of this most basic breach of good manners. Even as long as it had been since he’d had any real food he should have been more mindful. Then remembering the enormous luxurious apartment he thought that maybe Solo had so much money he could eat like that every night. Still Solo’s obvious wealth was no excuse for Kuryakin’s bad manners.

“I guess you liked it.”

“I am sorry.” He met the other man’s eyes, trying to show his sincere remorse. He decided his defect in manners at least needed some sort of an explanation. “I have never had anything like this. It was wonderful.”

“I thought relations were close between your country and China.” Solo stood and began clearing the table.

“Apparently it does not extend to sharing Chinese food.” Illya returned the quip, now recognizing that it was not meant to be anything more than a moment of noise between them. 

“I’m glad you liked it. We’ll do Italian tomorrow night.”

So this was not meant for tomorrow’s dinner, perhaps his lunch then. Illya looked over the little boxes of food. There was still more than half the food remaining, perhaps for their breakfast? He hoped so.

“I’ll save this,” Solo answered his unasked question. “I always end up throwing it out, but I save it for a week until it starts to go off.”

This left Illya completely confused. He would not eat this food again? He licked his lips, savoring the flavors still lingering there. It had been wonderful.

“You want coffee or bed?” Solo asked from the doorway into his kitchen.

“Sleep would be good.”

“Sleep it is, then. We’ll spend tomorrow getting the worst deficiencies of your wardrobe mended before we go into HQ and start the planning for our trip to Yugoslavia. I imagine it will take at least forty-eight hours to make arrangements with the Tito government.”

Illya nodded and pushed his chair back under the table. “I will be ready by then.” Illya answered the question about his health the other man had forbore asking. “Thank you for the Chinese food. It was very good.”

“Oh, Kuryakin, wait.” Solo called after him as he started down the hall.

He turned and waited. The bed was calling to him, now that his stomach was full, and he hoped the other man did not want the sex his previous actions had suggested.

“We need to change that bandage. You can’t go to bed with it wet.”

“It will be fine.” Illya almost smiled at that, thinking of the hoses of cold water. He had mostly gone to, if not bed, then sleep with it wet. The bandage had been a new thing, a concession he supposed to western sensibilities. Fine to torture and abuse but don’t let the Americans see it. He supposed had he any sense of loyalty to the Motherland he would have tried to explain away the bruises. But he did not care any longer to try and understand Russia and her people or even less to try and explain them to this American.

“It will only take a minute.” Solo had a box in his hand. “Sit down.”

Illya stood for a moment wondering that if he walked away would Solo let him go or follow him. However, a lifetime of training would not allow him to disobey such a clear order from a superior officer. He returned to the table and sat.

Solo pushed the wide pajama sleeve up his arm and removed a pair of scissors from the box. He cut off the wet bandage and looked at the long wound. “This is nasty.”

Illya agreed, but hoped Solo did not intend to do anything about before he got to lie down in that big bed in the guest room. “We’ll get it attended in the morning after our shopping.” He gave Illya another of the smiles of which he seemed to have such abundance. “I’ll just wrap it up.”

Solo was as good as his word and after smearing some ointment on the wound, he covered it with white gauze and then carefully enclosed that in a layer of bandage. He finished by handing Illya a small white pill. “You got any antibiotics you’re taking for that?”

Illya shook his head but didn’t give the other man the smile the question deserved. Antibiotics for one such as himself? “Well this will help with the pain tonight so you can sleep.”

Illya shook his head again and rose to his feet, not even trying to disguise his exhaustion. “Won’t be needed.”

“Yeah, it will, you’ll fall asleep now because you’re so tired, but in about four hours, the pain is going to wake you up.”

Illya hesitated. He knew that was the usual pattern since the beatings had begun. The exhaustion now was masking the pain. Once his body relaxed into stillness, the abused muscles would tighten up and by morning he would be in agony. He looked at the pill suspiciously. If he slept too deeply, he would not be able to wake if he dreamed.

“You need the sleep take the pill.”

He obeyed the order, doubting its wisdom, but too tired to trust his own judgment. He nodded his thanks for the bandage and turned back toward the bed. Please let him make it this time. Lie down. Close his eyes. Sleep and sleep and sleep. No buckets of cold water thrown on him in an hour, no boots kicking him in the ribs, no strong hands hauling him to his feet and throwing him against the wall. Sleep until he woke and then perhaps sleep again. Maybe sleep forever. But no, Golubev to deal with and then maybe sleep forever.

The white pill had power. He knew he’d been asleep for a while when the hands grabbed him and forced him on to his stomach. He fought as hard as he could, caught up in the sheets as he was, but they were too strong. They were always too strong for him and he gave up quickly. He knew he could not win by fighting. He could not win at all. He could endure. He was very good at that. He could endure anything. Proof he was alive. He could endure war and famine and rape and torture. He could endure. 

The weight was on him now. He tried to crawl away. He never begged. He could not always prevent the tears when the pain was too awful. His body would betray him with tears and the screams. That he could not always prevent and didn’t waste energy in the attempt. But he had never begged them. He knew there was no point in begging and so he put his pride in that he had never begged for what could not be. 

He could hear the voices now. They all liked to talk to him while they beat him, raped him. Wanted to tell him their stories of what was happening. Tell him how much he was enjoying having someone shove his penis up his ass. Tell him how he had asked for it by being so pretty or by being so shy or by being so blond or just by being. They liked to tell him how much they were going to hurt him. Then they liked to try and match their actions to their words. He had stopped listening to their stories. He concentrated on not screaming and when he lost that fight he did not beg. He would not beg.

The hands were on his shoulders, shaking him. They liked to shake. To show how strong they were and how small he was. Not so small now as he once was as he was when it all began but always smaller than they were, always weaker. 

He woke with Solo’s hands on his shoulders and he tried to scramble away from him across the bed. 

“Illya, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

Illya struck out with his good arm and had the satisfaction of seeing Solo jump back from him. He fought his way free of the tangle of sheets and blankets only to come up against the headboard of the bed.

“Wake up, you’re dreaming.”

He pulled his knees up to his chest and bowed his head down on top of them while he caught his breath. Chyort. Idiot pill. Chyort. He bolted from the bed and into the bathroom in time to vomit his delicious Chinese food into the toilet. He reached up with his good hand to flush the evidence of his gluttony away and then threw up what was left. He closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels only to feel a cool cloth pushed into his hand.

“Wipe your face. It will help.”

He glanced up to see Solo standing over him and obeyed yet another order from his new partner. He was right it did help. It wiped away the sweat of the dream and the vomiting.

“Here, rinse and spit.”

He reached for the glass of water not even bothering to open his eyes, obeying those orders as well.

A hand under his elbow helped him to his feet. “You finished in here?”

He nodded and pulled free of Solo’s hand. Then sorry for his rudeness opened his eyes and looked at the other man’s face. “Too much Chinese food.” 

“Yeah, I imagine.” Solo followed him back into the bedroom and nothing more was said as Illya crawled back into the bed. Solo threw the blanket over him and left the room turning off the light as he went.

***

The morning was a crash course on capitalist economics. Illya had never seen so much stuff in his life. Macy’s alone had left him stunned. Solo had half guided, half dragged him through three different stores before he was satisfied Illya had enough possessions to last out the week. He had clothes for work and clothes for sleeping and clothes for working out in the gym. He drew the line at clothes for leisure. This was a concept he couldn’t quite encompass and an expenditure he couldn’t justify. Asked where the money for it all was coming from Napoleon had explained about ‘expense accounts.’

“And do all workers have expense accounts?” Illya thought that might explain the large number of people thronging the isles of Macys.

“Ah, no, not all people, many, but not all.”

“Who has expense accounts?” Illya had persisted, trying to understand capitalism now that he was a part of a capitalist society.

“I don’t really know.” Solo had said after seeming to give the question more thought than he generally gave his quick replies. “All of the field agents and I think Section One. I’m not sure about the rest.”

“Only U.N.C.L.E.?”

“No, a lot of businessmen have them. Look, Illya, I don’t know much more about this than you do. I graduated from college and spent two years in the army. My civilian work experience has only been at U.N.C.L.E.” Solo gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I’m not much of an authority on expense accounts, although I can certainly fill out the form.”

“And it buys clothes for field agents? What else?”

“It’s complicated. It’s buying these clothes because you didn’t have any and that was because you came here on a mission. So anything we lose or damage while working for U.N.C.L.E. gets expensed. The rest you pay for from your salary.”

Illya nodded at that and followed Solo into a store that sold nothing but men’s shirts and ties. He allowed Solo to select three shirts, but drew the line at the bright variety of ties. He’d been walking through the crowded streets and stores for over three hours and didn’t have nearly enough interest in what he wore to justify another step let alone another dollar of U.N.C.L.E.’s money.

“Enough, please. This is fine.” He laid a single black tie on top of the three white shirts. 

“No it’s not.” Solo insisted. “You are going to need more shirts or you’ll be doing laundry every other night.” Solo added five more shirts to the pile and Illya looked away out the window of the shop. What matter shirts and ties and underwear and pajamas and luggage and black shoes. The entire expedition seemed so foolish to him.

“I have enough now,” he said again when they left the store.

Solo stopped in the sidewalk and turned to study him. He put his hand on Illya’s shoulder and smiled at him. Illya’s first reaction was to jerk away. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. This man had been nothing but kind to him since they had met. Taken him into his home. Taken him to the stores. Fed him and bandaged his wound. He knew Solo was a tactile person. The man grabbed his elbow when they crossed the road as if Illya couldn’t manage the traffic on his own. He would open the door for Illya and his hand would be in the small of Illya’s back as he waited for him to pass in the door way. 

At the beginning of their day together, Illya had moved away from the constant small touches. He hated being touched. He didn’t like the uncertainty of intent of another so much in his space. He needed the distance to assess his options and determine his reaction to possible threats. When a person was so close that they were touching, his responses were too limited. 

This was his partner. He understood the concept, although he had never had a partner before. He understood he needed to trust this man. He thought that Solo was quite possibly trustworthy. He didn’t know if Solo realized that allowing the touching was his thanks for the glass of water in the bathroom and the hot tea at breakfast. He found that he hoped so. He gave a small smile.

“Please, this is all of the capitalist excess I can manage in one day.”

Solo laughed at him and nodded his head. “I’ve had enough too, partner. I suspect when uncle Alex gets the bill he will be glad we are quitting. I think we have enough supplies. Let’s get you sewn back together and we can get to work.”

***  
Dr. Lester Haskins was a balding man in his forties. He also appeared to be an ardent anti-communist. This rather surprised Illya. Not that the man hated communists. He knew plenty of people who hated capitalists, but that the man was so unsubtle about it. He would have expected an educated man to be more sophisticated.  
The antibiotics made up for the doctor’s barely - contained distain for Illya and the condition of Soviet medicine. He’d read about the wonder drugs, but this was the first time he’d had an opportunity to experience them himself. He took the first pill with a sense of eager anticipation. U.N.C.L.E. must truly value its enforcement agents if they made the scarce drugs available for a burn already half healed.

He had no difficulty navigating his way back to the Solo’s office from the medical section. He was largely ignored by the other denizens of the building which suited his desire for anonymity. He made no effort to meet the eyes of those he passed in the halls. Solo stopped him outside his office where two men were fighting with a large steel desk and a marginally wide enough doorway.

“They’ll have your desk installed in a minute,” Solo said, resting his hand on Illya’s shoulder. “You all set with Medical?”

“Yes,” Illya felt himself blush slightly as he brought the bottle out of his pocket. “They gave me antibiotics.” He wished the words back as soon as he had spoken. Solo must think he was an idiot. But the other man smiled that kind smile and nodded his head.

“I hoped they would, it looked like it was getting infected.”

By this time the two workmen had come back out of the office and Solo made a large gesture indicating that Illya should precede him into the room. “Me casa es su casa. There aren’t very many of Section Twos here at any time so we share a secretary,” Solo continued, following Illya into the office. Solo spent the next hour explaining how U.N.C.L.E., operated on a daily basis and outfitting Illya with the forms that occupied the agent’s time when they weren’t in the field. The two men exchanged a look of relief when they were interrupted by a call to report to Mr. Waverly’s office.

“That’s enough bureaucracy for one day,” Solo said, shooting his cuffs as he straightened from his chair.

“Gentlemen,” Waverly said as they came into the office. “Mr. Kuryakin are you prepared to take the U.N.C.L.E., oath?”

“Yes, sir.”

The swearing in took less than a minute. Illya made no comment about the ‘so help me God’ part of the oath beyond thinking to himself that the western prejudice of the organization seemed rather rampant. Waverly appeared to read his mind as he said, “We are a part of the culture that formed us, Mr. Kuryakin. Your government chose not to participate in the writing of the oath or in the development of our policies.”

“Yes, sir,” Illya agreed, having no knowledge of the subject nor any desire to become involved in a discussion of the actions or lack of action of the Soviet Union.

“Yes, well, in any case we are pleased to have you. Welcome to U.N.C.L.E., Mr. Kuryakin.” Waverly reached across the table, offering his hand to Illya. Keeping his face expressionless against the pain in his arm, Illya accepted the handshake. Solo standing closer caused him less discomfort with his own congratulations.

“Very well, gentlemen, let us get to work. Section Four has pulled together the available information on Golubev.” Waverly pushed a button on his desk and a large photograph of General Golubev appeared on the wall opposite the window. “Stanislav Ivanovich Golubev, fifty-four years old. He served in the MGB during the war, rising to his final position as head of the Second Directorate.” A new photograph appeared on the wall. “This is Doctor Ernst Heim. He worked as a chemist for the SS during the war. He is believed to have been working with the SS Dritte Committee. They were the group that was developing chemical weapons for use by the Wehrmacht. Happily for all concerned Hitler had had enough experience of poison gas in the First World War and he never used the weapons the group developed. Dr. Heim’s specialty was nerve gases.” Waverly clicked something and the photograph changed. “This picture was taken six months ago. It is a photograph of Dr. Heim in Przinitzia, Yugoslavia. It seems a bit of a coincidence that General Golubev and his twenty canisters of Sarin should be in the same place as Dr. Heim who helped to develop the gas.”

Waverly gave the two men a moment to digest this information before continuing. “The Yugoslavian government has agreed to your entering the country. You will fly from Rome tomorrow. Miss Roger’s has your tickets and contact information. Keep in touch, gentlemen, and good hunting.”


End file.
